Sherlock FlashFiction
by Tango Fox
Summary: A series of flash-fiction stories based on prompts i get on Tumblr. Will add more when i do them!
1. The Great Game Of Chess

_The Great Game (of chess)_

Sherlock tried to concentrate on the game. He knew if he really paid attention to this game he could win the title in two moves. But as much as he tried, he couldn't focus on the board in front of him. At sixteen, he had little interest in other people. The only reason he involved himself in chess matches was because it was a good way to stimulate his mind. It wasn't that he didn't want conversation with others; it was just that he found most of his classmates to be incredibly dull though. Johnny was different though. From watching his previous games it was clear Johnny had won by chance, at that really he stood no chance against Sherlock's brains. But it was something other than his intelligence that fascinated Sherlock. He liked Johnny's wit, his warmth, his determination. Being educated at an all boys school and shunning friendship with others meant that he was not aware of teenage love, he had not experienced any of it. But he was not stupid, far from it. He could tell his feelings; he could recall reading textbooks that described his feelings as something apparent. Perhaps he did love Johnny, maybe a little bit. But he knew he shouldn't, he had no time for that, and his brain must do big things in the world.

He moved his bishop across the board, cursing as he did so, realising that he had just walked into a checkmate. Johnny grinned widely as he captured Sherlock's king easily.

Yes captured. It seemed like a highly appropriate word to Sherlock.


	2. The Great Cold

_The Great Cold_

Every time John attempted to leave, Sherlock whined like a small child. It was bad enough he had to look after sick children at work, but having to deal with an ill flatmate was insufferable, especially when it was Sherlock. He had intended to go out to restock the fridge, but instead shrugged off his jacket and headed into Sherlock's room. The detective lay in his bed, ever the drama queen. It was only a cold, John had been ill with the same thing last week, and hardly let it bother him at all. Yet here was Sherlock, bundled up in his dressing gown and surrounded by blankets, writhing about and whining as if it were the end of his days.

John sat down on the edge of the bed. "Want me to get you anything?" he asked soothingly. While he was tired of Sherlock's overreaction, there was no way he could ignore it, he was a doctor, and would happily nurse Sherlock back to health.

Sherlock sniffled and looked up at John with big silver eyes. "A hug?"

"But what if you pass your germs on to me?"

Sherlock sniffled again, a little whine escaping him. "I won't pass anything on to you, I promise."

John sighed and gave up, it wasn't worth the protesting, and Sherlock always got his own way. He lifted up the covers and wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind, pulling him in a tight embrace. He lifted an arm to run it across Sherlock's clammy forehead, shifting away his matted hair and wiping away sweat.

"Your temperature is going down," he said softly, kissing the back of his neck. "You should probably sleep, and I shall make you some soup when you wake up."

Sherlock snuggled closer to John and sighed contently.

"I'd be lost without my doctor."


	3. The Dancing Detective

_The Dancing Detective._

Sherlock wanted to be back at the flat, working. John had left to visit Harry and Mycroft had blackmailed him into going to his family home for Christmas dinner. While he wanted to do his best not to upset Mummy, spending time in the same room as his brother was insufferable. He sat at the table pushing carrots around his plate, glaring at the offering of food in front of him.

"Don't play with your food Sherlock," said Mycroft from across the table.

Sherlock picked up a sprout and threw it at him. "Piss off Mycroft."

"Oh please can we try and get on boys?" sighed Mrs Holmes. "It is Christmas after all. Now Mycroft what have you been up to in the holidays?"

"He's been busy eating Christmas cake by the looks of it," smirked Sherlock. "Incapable of controlling your diet Mycroft, looks like you've put on about five pounds."

"I have _not_ been eating Christmas cake," seethed Mycroft, clearly angry. "At least I can control my own actions and am not a public embarrassment."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Sherlock raising an eyebrow. He was a perfect citizen, never embarrassed himself.

"You know what I'm talking about," grinned Mycroft. "The video is up to nearly two million hits now."

"What. Video?"

"The one from Lestrade's wedding? Dears heavens Sherlock, surely you've seen it?"

Sherlock could feel his cheeks getting hot. He had got terribly drunk with John at Lestrade's wedding, he could hardly remember the most of the night. Mycroft quickly whipped out his phone and opened up a video file, both Sherlock and Mrs Holmes leaning in to watch. To watch Sherlock dancing, swinging his hips to Thriller like some crazed psychopath on acid. He groaned, wishing he could drown in the mashed potatoes. It wasn't often Mycroft got the better of him, but this time, he wasn't sure he could live it down.


	4. A Study In Fur

_A Study in Fur_

"Sherlock I asked you to get think milk when you went out an hour ago!" shouted John from the kitchen. As usual the kitchen was bare; he couldn't even make himself a decent cup of tea.

He ambled into the living room grumpily to find Sherlock lazed on the sofa, his limbs sprawled out everywhere. On the coffee table lay a cereal bowl, full to the top with milk. An empty carton lay discarded on the floor. There was a time when Sherlock would spend all his time awake working on cases, but recently he seemed to prefer sprawling across the sofa and sleeping for sixteen hours a day.

John remembered he had left earlier in the morning, muttering something about chasing up a lead. He returned before John headed out to work, circled him, sniffed him, and then threw himself down on the sofa. Sherlock was a strange man indeed; John wasn't sure how he had put up with him all these years.

He decided to let Sherlock be and headed towards their bedroom, ruffling Sherlock's hair as he passed. The detective let out a deep purring noise before stretching his limbs out further and licking his lips.

John just shook his head. Sherlock Holmes was a strange creature indeed.


	5. The Hound Of Baker Street

_The Hound of Baker Street_

John had been living at 221b for almost a year now and Sherlock and he had been dating for over half that time. By now he was used to Sherlock's disappearances, but ever since they had met that client George from Bristol, he had been disappearing for days on end. John wasn't worried about infidelity or not trusting Sherlock, he was just worried about what dangerous activities he was getting up to.

This time, Sherlock had been gone almost 4 days. He had returned that morning and gone straight to bed, muttering some poor excuse before shutting his door in John's face. Since John didn't have to go to work he busied himself around the flat, cleaning things up, straightening up all of Sherlock's papers. After the place was positively sparkling, he gathered together some clothes to throw in the washing machine. He noticed on the floor was Sherlock's overnight bag, unzipped, with clothes inside. John grabbed them, intending to stick everything in the washer. However, he pulled out Sherlock's favourite purple shirt to find it ripped in several places, and covered in dark brown fur.

Perplexed he went into Sherlock's room without knocking, carrying the shirt.

"Have you been with a dog Sherlock?" he asked.

"What, no, not exactly"

"Then what's with the shirt?"

"Remember when we were investigating the case of the vampire massacre on the train?" he asked John.

"Yeah, of course." How could John forget? Two vampires called Mitchell and Daisy had gone on a bloody frenzy, killing an entire carriage full of train passengers.

"Well John," he began. "It did seem that while I was working late at night in the woods I was attacked. By a werewolf."

John's mouth hung open wide; he could hardly believe what he was hearing.

"Now no need to panic John. I am completely harmless; I am still _your_ Sherlock.

"Harmless?"

"Of course, while my behaviour is sometimes more ferocious, I can assure you no harm will ever come to you."

A slow smile began to form on John's face as he awkwardly played with the shirt in his hand.

It didn't take much for Sherlock to catch on. Growling playfully he leaned forward to drag his prey towards the bed for dinner time.


	6. A Study In White

_A Study in White_

John hated Christmas. Mainly because his one serious girlfriend had broken things off over the holidays. He also hated the fact he had to drag a toddler to a crime scene. Sherlock was absolutely awful at Christmas; he had insisted they walked to the millennium bridge, which was closed off due to a body being found on it early this morning. He spent the whole journey kicking up snow and throwing snowballs at John. John had to resist the urge to punch him. After a particularly annoying snowball to the face John had ran at Sherlock and tackled him to the ground, which unfortunately only made Sherlock giddier, and earned them very strange looks from the passersby. After that John had just grumbled at dodged until they had arrived at the bridge.

Lestrade was stood waiting at the bridge, surrounded by three police cars and a barricade to keep away the reporters and the public. Sally Donovan muttered insults as they both passed under the tape, Sherlock completely ignoring her, in the middle of explaining to John the importance of snow, not that he was listening.

Lestrade explained the case to both of them. The woman had been found on the bridge at 3am, head bashed in. They had no suspects, and apart from the body, no evidence. Sherlock's smile vanished as Lestrade explained, and his brow knitted into a frown.

"You have taken me away from Baker Street for this?"

Lestrade looked confused. "Well of course, we have no leads; we need you to figure this out!"

Sherlock snorted. "Arrest the boyfriend."

"Oh come on Sherlock, you're being ridiculous now. Are you going to give us something to go on or not?"

"Since its Christmas, I'll let you off for being so stupid" smirked Sherlock. "You have failed to pick up on the fact it didn't start snowing until 2am, and around that time very few walk across this bridge, especially in cold windy weather. There are a clear set of footprints here, high end trainers, size ten. Look at her, her style of dress, she is easily a footballer's girlfriend, and the boot prints clearly lean towards someone of that profession. Judging by smudged lipstick she was kissing someone, but not going home with them, hence the smudges, she tried to pull away. Perhaps the boyfriend got to keen, perhaps she wanted to break up. Who knows, humans are boring. What's important here is that the boyfriend followed her across the bridge, most likely in a heated argument, and bludgeoned her to death, hoping the weather would cover his tracks."

Lestrade stood there open mouthed.

"Now go do your job. Come along John, I want to build at least two snowmen before Mrs Hudson has finished baking her Christmas cake!"


	7. The Blinded Policeman

_The Blinded Policeman_

Neither John nor Sherlock wanted to be at the crime scene today. They had planned to spend all morning in bed, relaxing for once. Instead Lestrade had begged them to go help decipher a code left at a murder scene. It wasn't until they got there that they realised Lestrade was still sorting paperwork out at the office, and had put Anderson in charge.

"What are you two doing here?" Anderson sneered as they crossed the police tape.

"Lestrade called us, obviously." Answered Sherlock lazily, removing his gloves as he did so.

"Well I don't need your help so go away."

Sherlock chuckled. "Please Anderson; your IQ is so low a canine would solve a murder case quicker than you."

John suppressed a giggle as they walked through into the room. He always loved when Sherlock got snappy at Anderson, even without meaning to, he was a great comedian.

"Sherlock I don't want you on my crime scene!" shouted Anderson, pointing towards the door, hinting at them to leave.

"And how would you solve this crime without me?" asked Sherlock, turning around to face him.

"Oh give it up Sherlock, the world doesn't stop functioning without you," spat Anderson. "You are just a lonely psychopath hated by everyone for your weird little party tricks!"

"Hey!" shouted John. Anderson had gone too far this time. He hated seeing Sherlock's face when he was incredibly insulted; it reminded him of the incident at the bank every time.

"Anderson, you little dinosaur fucker, piss off before I punch you in the face."

Anderson stood there mouth wide open, in disbelief of what John had just said. Without warning Sherlock burst into unexpected laughter, almost doubling over.

"Come on John," said Sherlock, chuckling as he grabbed John's hand. "Let's get out of here and leave the 'dinosaur fucker' to it!"


	8. Binoculars

**Binoculars**

Jim didn't even notice he was drooling. God his target was so careless. The curtains were open, and the lights filled the room. He had just entered from his evening shower wearing a small towel around his waist. His mahogany hair hung in his face, and water droplets shone off of his shoulder blades.

Sherlock Holmes. Standing there in his bedroom on one of the busiest streets in London, for all the world to see.

But it wasn't for all the world. It was for Jim.

He used to come out of the bathroom in a robe, and close the curtains almost immediately. But then Jim had sent him a little text saying he was watching. Ever since then, Sherlock had put on his little display for him, showing off every night. God how Jim loved it. He wanted to run over there and destroy Sherlock in every way possible. But of course he never would, that would ruin the game. This, this is what the game was all about. Sherlock Holmes, almost naked, flexing his muscles. Jim Moriarty, in a darkened room holding binoculars, licking his lips and letting hands wander.


	9. Butterscotch

**Butterscotch**

"Sherlock what is that? What are you doing?"

"Shh John," he murmered, continuing. "Go back to sleep if you wish. I'm experimenting."

There was no way John would be able to go back to sleep. He could feel that his naked body was no longer covered by the blanket. And he could feel Sherlock's wet fingers smothering something over his chest.

"God I'm not going to sleep now," he grumbled. "What are you doing to me?"

"Trying something. Have I ever told you I had a sweet tooth?"

"I kind of gathered since I never get to see my strawberry jam anymore. What is that you've got there?"

"Butterscotch."

Sherlock dipped his head down and began to flick his tongue over John's skin, lapping up the sauce like a hungry cat. John couldn't help but grin as Sherlock and he made eye contact, that devilish glint taking over the detective's eyes.

While most of the time Sherlock was an absolutely insufferable partner, it was moments like this which made it all incredibly worthwhile.


	10. Ebony

**Ebony**

"Have I told you that I love your hair?" said Sherlock, twisting his fingers through it roughly.

"Never," sighed Jim. "You never give me compliments."

"That's because you always gag me."

"True," he smiled. "But don't pretend that you don't enjoy it."

"On the contrary," replied Sherlock, returning the smile. "You know how much I lust after you when you take charge."

"Yes I know very well." He traced his fingers lightly across Sherlock's naked collarbone. "So My hair?"

"Mmm. Delicious."

"How so?"

"Wonderfully soft, perfectly sculpted. Smells like coconut before sex, and me afterwards. And the colour, that's my favourite part. Ebony, like night. Like a delicious cocaine addicts pupils. Like iron-rich blood. You remind me of a panther, always stalking his prey, hair as dark as your soul."

"Oh god," said Jim, a moan escaping his lips. "Come here and remind me never to gag that pretty little mouth of yours again."


	11. Everyone Loves a Ginger

**Everyone Loves a Ginger**

"John what are you doing in there?" asked Sherlock curiously, rapping his knuckles on the bathroom door.

"Don't you dare come in!" John roared.

Silly words to say to Sherlock Holmes really. He picked the bathroom door with ease to find a very shocking sight. John stood in front of him, a towel on his head, and a box of sandy blonde hair dye in his hand.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the now flustered doctor. "What in heaven's name are you doing John? That is your natural colour."

"It's this bloody shampoo I bought the other day!" cried John. "It's gone and turned my hair ginger, I look like a right prat."

"Can I see?"

"No. You will laugh."

Sherlock huffed. "When have I ever laughed at you John Watson? Please?"

John let his shoulders drop as a sign of defeat. Sherlock walked over and gently removed the towel from John's head. He had to inhale sharply when he caught sight of John's orange locks.

"Oh god is it really that terrible?" groaned John.

Sherlock couldn't help but run his fingers through the messy hair. Too long for a soldier now, but perfect for Sherlock.

"Oh John," he whispered. "Please, please keep it."


	12. Google

**Google.**

"John come here now," Bellowed Sherlock.

John ran out of the bathroom, Sherlock's panicked tone worrying him. He found the detective sat on the sofa with his laptop. His eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

"What is it? Something on your website?"

"John have you ever googled "Sherlock and John"?"

John scratched his head. "No can't say I have. Why what's come up? Oh god it's not that picture of us drunk is it? How did that get on the internet?"

"Do you have any idea what smut-art is?" Sherlock hissed.

John came around the back of his chair to look at what Sherlock was viewing on the screen. He dropped his mug of tea.

"What! What is that? Why are you doing that to me? Who drew that?"

"God I don't know John, but this is just the beginning. There are more, thousands more."

"God and are they all like this? Jesus Sherlock, why does everyone always assume we are gay?"

"I have no idea. I do not understand humans." He shut his laptop loudly and moved to stalk over to his bedroom.

"Besides its terribly ridiculous," he grumbled before shutting his door. "I'm never top, always bottom."


	13. Inside Sherlock's Mind

**Inside Sherlock's Head.**

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts when the first made contact with his jaw. His entire body ached now, he felt like he had been beaten for hours.

Not long ago, Jim had broken into his apartment, barricaded him in, and used him as a punching bag. He was currently laying on his bedroom floor, black and blue, with the designer clad criminal standing over him. A normal person would be begging for mercy. He should have at least been putting up a fight. But he couldn't. He couldn't because strange little Sherlock Holmes was enjoying himself. The tingling sensation all throughout his body was not from pain, it was from pleasure. The fact that Moriarty's wide grin had not left his face once only intensified the matters.

He shouldn't be feeling this. He wanted to use his last ounce of strength to pin Jim against the bed and take him. He should want to punch him, knock him unconscious and call the police.

He shuddered once more as Jim grabbed a hold of his hair and yanked him into a sitting position. They both sat there then, Jims hand in Sherlock's hair, Sherlock's blood dripping onto the carpet, Jim's musical laughter echoing throughout the room.

But they were both madmen, both geniuses. Violence and pleasure came hand in hand for both of them. Perhaps a hidden weakness or perhaps a shared strongpoint.


	14. Jims Wandering Hands

**Jims Wandering Hands**

He couldn't help himself. There was the glorious detective, stood in front of him clad in tight cotton, aiming a gun at his face. Danger always excited him, and the dashing consulting detective only intensified those emotions. He liked this. With several snipers aimed at both his toys, Sherlock was absolutely powerless. He wouldn't fire that gun; he knew it would result in John Watson's death.

He strode forward slowly, resisting the urge to lick his lips. He could see Sherlock's brain working, trying to anticipate his moves. He didn't even bother to glance over at John. He closed the distance and placed a hand on Sherlock's suit jacket, running his fingers across the material. Spencer Hart, he could recognise the distinctive cloth, and he happened to own a very similar one.

"Nice suit," he commented.

"What are you doing?" asked Sherlock, raising his eyebrow and turning his head slightly.

He had not dropped the gun, but his fingers had relaxed around the trigger. That made Jim gleeful. Being touched by a criminal mastermind, by his arch-enemy, and that's when he decides to let go of the trigger? Brilliant. He let his fingers wander sliding down Sherlock's arm, then moving to his chest. The detective stood like a stone statue, but his pulse had quickened, his heart began to thump loudly. Jim suppressed his grin. He let his hand slide in Sherlock's jacket, flicking a card out of his sleeve and tucking it into his pocket. Nobody else would have noticed the move; even Sherlock barely felt the piece of paper slip into his pocket.

Jim turned on his hell and walked back to his previous spot to carry on his game of pretending to kill Sherlock and John. He wasn't going to do that. Sherlock now had the address of a nice little flat in Soho. And like a good little boy, he would turn up, ready for Jim, ready to play.


	15. Jims Wandering Hands 2

**Jims Wandering Hands 2**

Sherlock stood outside his given address as the taxi drove away. He could still feel Moriarty's fingers on his chest. He could still taste the scent of his aftershave on the tip of his tongue. God the man was beautiful. Of course he was dangerous, deadly, and psychotic. But those factors were what made Sherlock dizzy with lust.

He wanted to taste every part of Jim Moriarty, to eat him up. He had dreamt of this before, but he always pushed it to the back of his mind, always told himself it was a bad idea, not worthwhile. But once that card had been slipped in his pocket, he couldn't resist. As soon as John had been seated in the living room with Mrs Hudson he had locked himself in his bedroom, taking it out of his pocket with trembling hands. The paper was rich and expensive, the exact same type used to send the phone. But this paper smelled. Smelled like musk and sweat and Jim's desire.

So half an hour later he found himself outside the address, shivering with anticipation. Oh god he loved this game. He had never loved anything more.


	16. Lets Leave Hitler

**Let's Leave Hitler**

_Sherlock I need your help. Now. AH_

Sherlock looked at his phone and sighed. It wasn't his job to deal with world problems. Especially at 4am in the morning. Didn't everybody know that's when he did his chemistry experiments? He reluctantly replied.

_I'm a busy man Adolf. What do you want? SH_

_I'm trapped in a cupboard. Some imbeciles broke into my office and threw me in here. I've tried shouting but nobody has responded. Can you come? SH._

God humans were so pathetic. Could nobody do anything themselves? Did the world stop functioning when Sherlock Holmes was busy?

_I'm otherwise occupied. Please do not bother me with such trivial matters like 'being stuck in a cupboard'. SH_

_You can't leave me here! AH_

_The ones in your office had no problem leaving you there, and neither do I. Good day. SH_

Silly humans. At this time in a morning, his formaldehyde solution was much more important.


	17. Lipstick

**Lipstick**

Sherlock ran into the flat, throwing himself onto the sofa. He didn't even seem to notice the fact that John was sitting there.

"Um Sherlock? Personal space."

"John I'm tired, don't be so dull," sighed Sherlock.

John surveyed the man lying on top of him. "Sherlock why is there lipstick on your collar?"

"Told you I was working on a case tonight."

"Yes but did the case require you to run around London getting snogged?"

Sherlock sat up with a grin on his face.

"John Watson do I detect a hint of jealousy? Would you rather it was your lips near my skin?"

John's cheeks turned an alarming shade of scarlet and he spluttered unintelligible words. Sherlock sank back into John's lap and closed his eyes.

"Do stop John; your face is turning the same colour as that lipstick stain."


	18. Oranges

**Orange(s)**

"Sherlock, could you eat that like a normal human being?" yelled John, slamming down his paper

"What do you mean?"

"You've just spent half an hour peeling an orange, now you are sat crouched and facing me, covering me with citrus juice. Stop nibbling at the segments."

"But I like to nibble," pouted Sherlock.

"Well I don't appreciate the orange spray, it's all over me."

Before John could blink, Sherlock launched forward. He placed both hands on John's shoulders and brought his mouth to John's neck. He slowly licked the orange juice up, and then began to playfully nip at John's neck.

"I like to nibble," repeated Sherlock.

John couldn't complain anymore. He liked it when Sherlock nibbled too.


	19. Penguin

**Penguin**

John never realised how much of a child Sherlock Holmes really was. They had been staking out London Zoo for a client, and it took all of twenty minutes for Sherlock to be distracted. John was currently being dragged by his hand in circles around the penguin enclosure.

"Oh aren't they magnificent John," gushed Sherlock. "Quite exquisite creatures."

"They're just birds Sherlock," he huffed. "We are on a case; we don't have time for this."

Sherlock glowered at him. "Don't be so dull John, I _love _penguins, and they are magnificent. Look at those two over there, that's us."

Sherlock pointed to two birds standing away from the pack. One was stood with its wings pressed firmly to its side, with its beak thrust in the air. The other was running around it in circles, flapping its wings furiously and squawking terribly loud.

John couldn't help but smile. He couldn't decide what it resembled the most; Sherlock trying to get his attention on some weird and wonderful fact, or John shouting at Sherlock for not getting the milk.

"Ahh don't think I can't see that smile," laughed Sherlock. "See everybody loves penguins. Even grumpy soldiers!"


	20. Remote

**Remote**

_Pass me the remote. SH_

_What? John W._

_Pass me the television remote. SH_

_Sherlock I'm in Bristol. I've been here since Tuesday. John W._

_What since when? Who has been feeding me? SH_

_What do you mean since when? You sent me here because you couldn't be bothered to take the case! You've probably not even eaten since I've left have you? Get up and go make yourself some food. John W._

_You are being dull. SH_

_Now, TV remote please. _


	21. Subway

**Subway**

"Why can't we just get a taxi," grumbled Sherlock, his arms crossed tightly across his chest and his bottom lip almost scraping the floor. He looked like an overgrown toddler.

"Because it was your idea to come to New York, and I want to take the subway."

"Oh but just look at everyone," seethed Sherlock. "That man in the seat across from us, clearly just visited a prostitute. The woman at the other end of the carriage? Went home with four men and a woman last night. And the couple with the baby over there? Kids hers, but not his."

John yanked Sherlock up by his elbow and dragged him through the open doors onto the platform.

"Remind me never to take you on the subway again," Hissed John. "In fact I might never take you out in public again. I almost wished you were back in London wrapped in that stupid blanket."

Sherlock laughed loudly, his normal mood returning. He removed John's hand and linked their arms, pulling him up towards the street.


	22. When John Goes Out

**When John Goes Out**

John was so glad to be leaving work at 10am. He had mistakenly come in for a shift; only to find out he had covered it last week and forgotten all about it. It did make sense though, he and Sherlock had been planning last night's case for weeks, and they had both anticipated not getting any sleep. John had left an absolutely elated Sherlock at the flat this morning, the detective was always happy when they had caught their man.

Entering the building, he was confused at the loud bass coming from the first floor flat. Curiously, he ascended the stairs to 221b, to the strange musical noise.

He dropped his bags on the floor when he opened the door to Sherlock. Except it wasn't just Sherlock. He found himself faced with an oblivious Sherlock in nothing but a pair of Calvin Klein boxers, jerking his body wildly about the flat while he sang into the television remote, while Queens 'Don't Stop Me Now' played in the background.

Sherlock still hadn't noticed John had entered, and considered to sing and dance. John couldn't miss the opportunity; He dug his camera phone out of his pocket and pressed record on the camera app.

Maybe now he could finally get Sherlock to go and get the milk.


	23. Naughty Sherlock

**Naughty Sherlock.**

"Sherlock are we going to be here much longer, we have been sat in this van for hours now," whined John.

"Six hours is not a long time," replied Sherlock, watching the street in front of them carefully.

"Can I not leave the van? I really need a piss."

"Oh god. Well you are going to have to wait a few more hours, this is more important."

John groaned. Sometimes he wondered how Sherlock even functioned as a human being. Sometimes he genuinely wondered if he was a human at all.

"Fuck it," he grumbled. "Pass me that bottle under your seat."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, still watching the road. "If you need to urinate John, I don't think that drinking liquid will help your situation."

God Sherlock was a prat sometimes.

"I don't want to drink liquid you idiot, I want somewhere to get rid of it, now pass me it!"

Sherlock spluttered and turned to look at John. "You what? What are you going to do!"

"What do you think," he replied, leaning over the seat and grabbing the bottle himself, he knew it was pointless waiting for Sherlock to do anything, ever. He ignored the detectives shocked face and unzipped his jeans. "Eyes back on the road you idiot."

Sherlock whipped his head back round to the front window, muttering under his breath.

Once John had finished with his trousers, he began to unscrew his bottle. Then he noticed Sherlock's eyes weren't on the road anymore. They were on him.

"Christ sake Sherlock, do you have to be such a pervert!"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Curiosity, is not perverted John."

"You bloody well are."

He zipped himself back up and threw the bottle into the back of the van, grumbling himself now and folding his arms across his body. Why he put up with such a difficult flatmate, he had no idea.


	24. Sherlock Makes Tea

**Sherlock makes tea.**

John woke up to a poking feeling in his ribs. His eyes struggled to focus, and his attempt to sit up made him almost vomit. He slowly turned his head to see Sherlock leering over him, poking his side with the end of his riding crop. Sherlock was shirtless. Actually, so was John.

"What's going on?" Mumbled John, his voice coming out raspy, itching his throat. "What are you doing with that?"

"Trying to wake you up," Sighed Sherlock "I only gave you a small sedative. You're a retired soldier John; I would've thought you would've woken up a bit more alert."

Sedative. The word sent John's brain and body back into motion. He blinked furiously and focused, looking down to notice thin red marks dashing across his chest.

"What the fuck Sherlock? You drugged me? And beat me? What the fuck!"

"Wanted to experiment," he replied as if the conversation were completely normal. "Couldn't use a dead body. Needed a pulse and a pumping heart."

A devilish grin crossed Sherlock's face as he traced a finger across John's chest, admiring his handiwork.

"And why are you shirtless?" Asked John, more than annoyed at his strange flatmate.

"Oh me? Well once you were half naked, well... I got hot."


	25. AUTHORS NOTE  PLEASE READ

_**Authors Note**_

For those enjoying my flash-fiction, all these are based on prompt submissions on my blog. I accept and write absolutely everything, and then will upload them all here. I mostly get Sherlock/John, but some are Sherlock/Moriarty. I will write any pairing, and will write any genre.

Visit my blog . if you want to submit your own prompt for a flash fiction story!


	26. Blame

**Blame**

It wasn't supposed to be like this. John wasn't supposed to be stood in the rain; barely being covered by Mycroft's umbrella, barely being supported by Mycroft's shaking hand.

He looked down at the ground where his best friend now lay. Why did he have to be such an idiot? Why couldn't the fool have just stayed at the hotel with him, John had told him that chasing Jim up a cliff would do him no good. And now look where it had gotten him.

God, John didn't want to be alone. He wanted to be wherever Sherlock was, he couldn't bear the fact that they would never solve another crime together, never bicker like the old married couple people assumed they were. They would never be, ever again. He fought back the tears that threatened to spill down his face. He had to be strong. He was stood surrounded by the Holmes family, all sombre and silent; he had no right to break down in front of them.

He loved Sherlock Holmes. More of a little brother than he could ever ask for, more of a best friend than he ever deserved. He bitterly wished he were the one laying in the box in the ground, he imagined Sherlock wouldn't take it so hard, he would just launch into an irritating speech about how everybody dies. Yes that's exactly what Sherlock would do. Although inside, he would be as heartbroken as John was now. Because he never changed his outside facade around people, he was always the friendless sociopath. But in private, he had a friend, he always had John Watson.

He was lost without his detective.


	27. Mistletoe

**Mistletoe**

John and Sherlock were sat opposite each other on Christmas Eve, grinning like schoolchildren. Mrs Hudson had just gone downstairs to bed, after the three of them had enjoyed a little bit too much Christmas brandy. John had completely forgotten what they were even discussing. Just every so often they would catch each other's eye and burst into drunken hysterics.

John tipped his head back mid-laugh, staring at the ceiling as he tried to calm down. He blinked laughter tears away from his eyes as he tried to realise what was above their heads. Mistletoe. Bloody mistletoe. Mrs Hudson must've put it up while they were both out working this afternoon.

Should he do something about it? No doubt Sherlock knew it was there, he noticed absolutely everything. Maybe... hell maybe he should just go for it. He could blame it on brandy and Christmas spirit.

He threw himself forward and pushed his lips clumsily against Sherlock's. However despite being pushed off like he expects, Sherlock kissed him back. He snaked his hand around John's neck and held him their tightly in the embrace. Sherlock tasted warm and sweet, and John couldn't help but work his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, he just tasted so wonderful. Sherlock purred as their tongues touched and John kissed him hungrily, secretly reminding himself to thank Mrs Hudson for the decoration.


	28. Restrained

**Restrained**

"Sherlock I'm not sure about this..." began John hesitantly.

He found himself lying on Sherlock's bed wearing nothing but his underwear and his wrists handcuffed to the bedposts. Sherlock had fastened the restraints extremely tightly, and was now sat on top of John, unbuttoning his shirt, watching John with curious eyes.

"Relax my love," Sherlock purred. "Everything will be wonderful."

They had both only been dating for a few months, but John was fully aware of Sherlock's sexual desires. The man loved control, any way he could get it, and of course, John was eager to please his sociopathic boyfriend. Besides, the cool metal against his wrists actually felt nice. And Sherlock's skin against his felt even better.


	29. Return

**Return**

Sherlock stood with his fingers wrapped around the doorknob, his entire body trembling. He hadn't been back at Baker Street for eight months now. He had been playing dead in Germany, hiding from dangerous enemies like Sebastian Moran. Everyone thought he had perished at the falls. Even John thought he was dead. But of course Sherlock couldn't help but spy on the doctor, who had remained ever loyal, carrying on the work in Sherlock's honour.

He sucked in as much air as he could and opened the door to 221B. He exhaled when he saw the flat. Empty. Of course it was empty; John would be at work at the clinic at this time on a Tuesday. He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. He couldn't sit here waiting for John to come back, which was just preposterous. And what if Mrs Hudson came in to clean? If she spotted a presumed dead man sat on John Watsons sofa it would put her in an early grave.

The landline phone on the desk suddenly began to ring and Sherlock jumped out of a skin. Panic filled his eyes and like a small animal, he turned on his heels, and fled. Why did he think he was ready to return to Baker Street? He couldn't face John; he couldn't face any of it.

With trembling fingers still, he made a call and booked a one way flight back to Germany. Away from danger. Away from John Watson. Safe.


	30. The Dog

**The Dog**

"God you are such a good pet," purred Jim. "So clever, so loyal."

John nodded, smiling at the praise.

"And Sherlock still thinks you are his bumbling flatmate, brilliant!" Jim clapped his hands together like a child and leaned forward to plant a kiss on John's lips.

"He has no idea I'm working for you," smirked John. "He got so confused in the pool though, that was fun."

Jim chuckled. "Oh that was brilliant dear, well done on your acting. If only he knew what dirty things we were getting up to beforehand."

John leaned forward and began to kiss Jims neck, grazing his teeth along this skin.

"You always get so frisky when dangers about, one mention of the bomb and you had already dropped your trousers."

"Oh Johnny boy, my beautiful pet, you know me so well."


	31. The Jumper

**The Jumper**

"I've got you a present Sherlock," said John, handing over a poorly wrapped gift.

Sherlock hesitantly took the present out of John's hand and proceeded to sniff it, then ran his tongue over the wrapping paper.

"For god sake Sherlock, stop being so weird and open it."

Sherlock stopped his examination and tore off the paper, dropping it on the floor, leaving nothing but a red and green jumper on his lap. He wrinkled his nose.

"Just because you like wearing cheap itchy jumpers, doesn't mean I do," he snapped. He looked up; hurt flashing in John's eyes.

"Yeah whatever," mumbled John, turning and walking out of the flat with a rather large bang.

Sherlock looked down at the clothing in his lap. Not cheap, and not itchy. It was Dolce and Gabbana, cashmere, exquisite. The forest green and berry red didn't clash, they melted into one another. A Christmas jumper for the stylish. Sherlock lifted it up to his nose, inhaling the scent of the jumper, mixed with the faint smell of John's aftershave which he no doubt wore while wrapping it. It must've cost him a month's wages. And of course Sherlock had seen the gift, and been his usual arrogant self.

He stood up and slipped on the garment, heading towards the upstairs flat to show as much gratitude as his ego could muster.


	32. Unexplored Territory

**Unexplored Territory**

"Please explain to me why we are doing this?" grumbled Sherlock, holding a sticky fingered toddler at arm's length.

John laughed at him, busy on the living room floor, playing with another toddler and a train set.

"I promised Mrs Hudson we would look after her grandchildren; they're not even any trouble."

"This one keeps staring at me."

"For heaven's sake Sherlock," exclaimed John. "She's probably trying to figure out why she's being held by such a weirdo. Play a game with her or something."

Sherlock stood up and held the child closer to his chest, striding over to the kitchen and the open anatomy book on the table.

"That child, is Uncle John, who is an areshole," he whispered into the girl's ear, causing her to laugh musically.

"I hope you are being appropriate!" Called John from in the living room, immersed in making train noises to amuse the little boy clapping on the floor.

"When have I ever done that," huffed Sherlock. He turned his attention back to the child. He tapped the diagram in his book.

"This little girl, is your brain, the most important tool you will ever own."

He then tapped lightly on the child's own head. She responded by reaching up and tapping herself, drumming her fingers against Sherlock's temple with a gleeful look upon her face.

He smiled back. Perhaps babysitting wouldn't be so bad after all; maybe he could even teach the child a thing or two!


End file.
